Lost
by DoctorMerlin
Summary: What happens when Sherlock and the Doctor's worlds collide? T to be safe.  AU
1. Pig

AN: BBC owns the latest, glorious Sherlock reinvention. The estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or something of that sort owns other things. Oh, I don't know. Don't sue me.

Amy Pond looked up in surprise. She'd been dozing off after her and the Doctor's latest adventures (all that running had left her more than a little sore and winded), when he started slamming buttons and shouting "No, no, no. What? WHAT?" over and over. No longer babbling in excitement to himself, he was more upset than she'd ever seen him.

"Doctor?" she said, rubbing her eyes.

"Not _now, _Amy."

"But wha-?"

"Not NOW!" and again he began shouting, only stopping to mumble technobabble.

Amy got to her feet and walked to the TARDIS' console. "Doctor, maybe I can help?"

He whirled around, eyes flashing. He was no longer playful and boyish, and this sudden change scared her. Her beloved raggedy Doctor...

With a particularly violent stab, Sherlock wedged the knife into the ribcage before him. Blood leaked out and started to run along the raw slab of flesh before him and onto the kitchen island. Ignoring the blood and bits of flesh and hair all over his hands and arms, he dashed off to John's laptop, popped open the lid, and began typing energetically.

As Sherlock was giving the carcass the finishing blow, John entered the flat. He pulled off his scarf and coat and hung it on the coatrack besides Sherlock's. Then, he picked his bag of groceries back up and, whistling jauntily, he made his way to the kitchen.

"Sherlock, why are you using my laptop? Your comp-" he trailed off as he noticed the gore on the man's slender arms. "Oh God. Did you kill someone? Oh no, Sherlock. I know it's been dull lately." And then, realizing the real problem: "You're using my laptop, without my permission, after _killing _someone and you couldn't be bothered to _wash your bloody hands_?"

"Was that last bit intentional? Because it was actually rather amusing. I suppose you haven't been reading my blog. And after I've made such efforts to keep up with yours..."

"What?" John said, surprised. Why weren't they talking about the dead person? Was Sherlock in shock or simply excited by some discovery?

"Your deductions are getting worse. I should be ashamed of myself, for failing to impart any of my wisdom, especially on my flatmate."

"So you didn't kill anyone?" John perked up noticeably.

"Go look in the kitchen."

So John bumbled over to the kitchen.

"What have you done to the place? This is bad, even for you! Mrs. Hudson will go through the roof!"

It was probably true. Bullets in her wall and the smell of burning eyeballs had elicited but the slightest reprimands from their landlady. She was used to Sherlock's peculiar experiments, and seemed to pity the man's lack of private lab space. But even this sentiment did not deter her from adding a hefty price increase on the rent as 'security.'

But this - this rivaled the damage of the bomb from their last adventure with Moriarty. Somehow, Sherlock had managed to smuggle a large pig carcass into their second-story flat. Part of it was suspended by hooks crudely jammed into the ceiling. Bits of plaster and blood mixed below on the floor, and bloody footprints wound about the entirety of the room. The pig's brain lay, shiny and wet, on a piece of china and a squiggle of intestine looped out of the sink and wound its way to the floor. Various organs, all punctured, sat in bowls and even an old tea-kettle. What appeared to be every pointy sharp thing in the flat were arranged neatly on the stove, covering the stainless steal top with slimy liquids diluted with blood. Oh, that wasn't even all of it. Everything was messy and smelly and gory, and even the hardened army doctor blinked his eyes and winced at the sight.

"Why did you do this?"

"I was studying the eff-"

"You know what? Never mind. I'm not responsible for this. I'll be leaving now."

John strode out quickly, neglecting the scarf and jacket. It wasn't really that cold out, anyways.

Once he reached the park, he pulled his cell out of his pants' pocket. He dialed a familiar number and waited as it rang. A click, a "John?" and then:

"Mrs. Hudson? I've been sending Sherlock texts all day and he hasn't replied. Could you check in on him and see if he's okay? He's been rather bored lately so..."

"John, I saw you come in and leave today. Don't lie to me. Is it a couples' thing?"

"Err...Well-"

"You want me to see if he's sorry? Let me go see, dearie" the sound of her footsteps - slightly off from her bad hip- and breathing as she walked up the stairs. "Sherlock? Are you there? Sherlock?" and then: "SHERLOCK! WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE TO THE PLACE NOW?"

John hung up quickly.

It started to pour down rain, so he nervously started to make his way back.

The TARDIS flung itself through space and time, breaking the laws of physics as it shook and twisted. It was like riding a roller-coaster, except more dangerous, more frightening. And much, much louder. Alarms and bells sounded, the vworp vworping was particularly fervent, and lights flickered and flashed.

The Doctor shouted and clung to the console as the TARDIS bucked and swerved.

"What the _hell _is going on, Doctor?" Amy asked, and finally, he answered.

"We've left our reality. Not good, not good. Not good at all."

Suddenly, the doors flung themselves wide. Eyes wide, Amy flung herself to the side and grabbed the nearest pole. Caught by surprise, the Doctor felt himself being sucked through the doors. In vain, he tried to get a solid grip on some part of the machine, but failed, and was ejected through the gaping doorway.


	2. Grocery

AN: Read and review, guys. I realize I should really edit these more, but by the time I've finished...eh. Problem with being an almost uni-student, I ain't even bovvered about anythinggg anymore. Anyways, help me out, people! I'm very appreciative. I realized my little dashy-breaks weren't working for some reason. Sorry for the confusion!

_Say goodbye, to the world you thought you lived in. _

Any Other World -Mika

Groggily, the Doctor stood up. He rubbed his sore head and then quickly patted himself down. Everything was still intact. That was good.

But where was he exactly? The air felt different; he was accustomed to air being ...somehow brighter, clearer He struggled to find the words to describe the exact things that were bothering him, but he couldn't. It was odd, nothing he had ever experienced in his many, _many_ years of existence. That was not so good.

When John arrived back at his Baker Street flat, Sherlock was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the floor of the somewhat cleaner kitchen. Mrs. Hudson stood, hands on her hips, by the refrigerator. John heard Mrs. Hudson scold Sherlock and Sherlock make a snarling retort. Feigning shock, he cussed and pointed to a particularly large pool of blood. "What?"

"An experiment. One that's gone way over the line!" Mrs. Hudson said sharply. And then, more kindly, she added: "John, would you be a dear and run and fetch some stain remover from the grocery?" Viciously, "Sherlock will be needing more."

"Uh, sure."

"I'll make you some tea and biscuits. I'm sorry to send you out in the rain, but I really would like my kitchen to be bloodless."

The Doctor stepped into a corner grocery, clothes dripping and hair matted to his skull. He looked around, trying to figure out his next move, but came up blank. He wasn't sure where Amy was, nor his beloved TARDIS. He wasn't even sure where he was. After making sure no one was looking, he shook himself like a dog to dry himself. It was not a particularly successful attempt.

"Oh!"

The Doctor whirled around to identify the source of the noise. A blond man with tired-looking eyes looked back.

"Hell of an outfit you've got there. Not very practical, in this weather."

"Well, I like it!"

"I didn't say I didn't, I was just noticing you looked uncomfortable. Wet."

"That...that is true."

"Why don't you come back to my flat? You could borrow the shower and some clothes or something."

Why had he asked this stranger back to his flat? _You're a doctor, you help people_, his mind offered. But that wasn't it. It was something about the man. He was brighter, sharper than other people. He looked off somehow. Oh, he was very British. But somehow...

The Doctor trotted along after the man as he bought the stain cleaner.

"Just that? For what?" he asked, partially out of politeness, partially out of curiosity.

"My flatmate really shook up the kitchen. A complete mess, hopefully, it won't stain. But that's Sherlock, quite a wild man."

"Oh. OH. OH!" the Doctor said, eyes widening. Was he going home with a sex maniac? He'd never encountered one on his voyages before. "Um, Sherlock is quite a peculiar name, isn't it?"

"I suppose," John said, absentmindedly.

"What should I call you?"

"John." Alright. That was a solid British name. Perhaps this world wasn't too different?

"Well, John, what did your, er, flatmate do to your kitchen?"

"Um. Butchered a pig. Blood everywhere." The man looked at him nervously. "He's not a serial killer, I promise. Neither am I. But why should you believe me? Offer still stands..." he trailed off awkwardly.

"A pig, you say? For what?"

"For scientific purposes."

"Interesting, interesting. Understandable."

They continued in awkward silence, walking quickly through the sloppy, wet London streets.


	3. Scarf

AN: We have a special test-taking week, thus way less school and homework. What to do with myself? Perhaps write a quick update to my bad fanfiction? Kay. As always, read and review! What worked, what didn't. All that good stuff, please!

"John, is that you? Please hurry, dear, I don't want this to stain!" Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen as the two men entered the flat.

To the stranger, John said: "Hang your wet coat on that hook there, and I'll be back in a moment." Reluctantly, he made his way to the kitchen.

"Who did you pick up at the grocery?" Sherlock asked, without looking up from the counter he was scrubbing.

"Who? You mean, what. He went to get sta-" Mrs. Hudson said.

"Who. Two pairs of footsteps on the staircase. John said something quietly at the doorway," Sherlock interrupted, turning to face John. "Stranger, not from around here." At their confused expressions, he added, "There are two muddy footprints on the bottom of his pant legs. One could be quite accidental, but two seems more like someone was following him quite closely than coincidence. Probably a foreigner, because he is unaware of the cultural norms dictating proper distance between walkers and because only someone truly out of their depth would feel so insecure as to require such a small separation."

"May I come around to the kitchen now? I can hear all you're saying, and I feel a little awkward standing here by myself," the stranger called from the flat entrance.

"Yeah, c'mon back," John answered.

Amy glanced at the TARDIS' doors. Still closed, and probably still locked. She shifted her gaze back to the controls. Lights were flashing, and the entire TARDIS was echoing with mechanical screeches and whistling. _Where was that button? _

Ah, there it was. The Doctor had said to press it in case of emergency. Surely this qualified?

She smashed her palm down on the button, perhaps with too much force. It beeped, as if in protest, and suddenly, the movable telly-like screen revolved to her side of the control center.

Fizzing with static, it suddenly lit up with the Doctor's unmistakable face.

"So, this thing working? Staticky, eh?" He pointed the screwdriver at the screen. A faint whirring and then more static. "Not better, not better. Aha, there!"

A crystal-clear image of the Doctor looked to the left and right before settling his gaze.

"There you are, Amy. Or maybe, Future Companion. Not quite sure who'll be getting this message. I must remember to update this if Amy leaves. If, errrr, you, Amy, leave! Right. To the point. I'm guessing you've noticed my absence."

The Doctor stood awkwardly by the kitchen. "Well, you certainly weren't joking about the state of this place."

"I'm afraid not," John said. "Let's let them" and at Mrs. Hudson's glare, "_Sherlock_ finish up. Perhaps some fresh clothes?"

John led him into a bedroom cluttered with papers, notes, and what looked to be chemistry experiments. On the nightstand beside the bed, a microscope stood where there'd usually be a lamp of some sort. The only personal item was a small unframed photograph of the man who was apparently called Sherlock and another man underneath a large black umbrella. The unknown man gave a politician's practiced grin, whereas Sherlock scowled unbecomingly at the camera.

"There's the wardrobe; help yourself to anything. I doubt Sherlock would care what you borrowed." The man half-limped, half-strode out the door, giving the Doctor some privacy. _Curious how he seems to forget his limp...and then remember. _

Turning to the wardrobe, the Doctor noticed a large collection of suits, dress shirts, and scarves. The only splash of color came from an aubergine shirt at the far corner. He grabbed it and replaced his own shirt with it, letting his damp clothes fall to the floor. He quickly changed into dull, black pants and socks, and grabbed a scarf for good measure. Checking his reflection in a particularly shiny piece of glassware, he sighed. The scarf was no bowtie, but it'd do.

The Doctor grabbed his sodden clothes and emerged from the bedroom.

"John, he...he's wearing my clothes! _**My scarf**_! You couldn't have lent him one of your awful jumpers?"

There was an uncomfortable silence, which the Doctor interrupted. No one could quite tell if he was simply musing aloud or actually speaking to them when he awkwardly stated: "I wear scarves now. Scarves are cool."


	4. Tea

A/N: Oh geez. It's been so long...oops, sorry etc. Life, you know? I had to reread everything to get a general idea of what I'd written previously. It's crap, but I might as well continue it. I'm obviously not British, so pardon any not-so-British-sounding dialogue. Also OOC-ness. Read and review, por favor!

"Just a mo'," Mrs. Hudson said, passing her guests and making her way to the steps. She walked down as quietly as she could and slipped into John and Sherlock's flat.

"Sherlock!" she bellowed. The consulting detective was typing something on John's laptop again, and the kitchen still resembled a slaughterhouse. He picked a bony hand up from the keyboard, still typing with the other, and flicked it in her general direction. Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat; the sound was surprisingly gruff for such a kind old woman. Sherlock's head whipped up, and with a scowl, he slammed the laptop shut. Under her sharp gaze, he recommenced his cleaning.

With a slight smile, she turned on her heel as quickly as her hip let her and returned to her flat. Her guests were staring awkwardly at the wall, or rather, John was. The other man, _(the Doctor was it?_), smiled up at her.

"Hello!" he said cheerfully. "Is he going to join us?"

"I'm afraid he's...preoccupied still," she said. Then, turning to John, "Oh you! You could be a little more polite. This man looks like a dear. He won't bite, will you, Doctor?"

"Oh no, I'm usually very behaved," the man smiled.

John shot a strange look at the Doctor and then smiled awkwardly. "Well, uh, Mrs. Hudson? Could we all have a cuppa?"

"That's a good idea, John," the landlady said. "I'll go put a kettle on."

As she busied herself in the kitchen, John turned to the guest. "So, where you from, mate?"

"I travel around a lot. A lotta lot."

"For business or pleasure?"

"A little of both, really. What about you? You look a little tan for London."

"I was an army doctor in Afghanistan," John explained.

"Ah, Afghanistan! Don't think I've ever been. Have I? No, don't think so. Pity, I really should. Sounds lovely."

"Er, right. Well, maybe ought to wait a bit."

"What year is it?" the man rolled his eyes up, a bit comically. He mumbled incoherently, counting on his fingers. "Oh really? Huh, suppose so. What year would you recommend?"

"Excuse me?" John asked, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Sorry? Oh, never mind me. I'm just a bit confused." He tapped his head for emphasis and flinched. "Remind me to not do that again."

"Is something wrong with your head? I am a Doctor, could take a look, you know."

"It should be alright. Have had a rough day, that's all. Ah, there's the lovely Mrs. Hudson. Tea, can't remember last time I had some of that. And to think I've been in England so many times without it!"

John said nothing, grabbed a cup of steaming tea, and took a large sip. The Doctor watched him carefully and followed suit.

"Blimey, that's hot!" he said, eyes wide in surprise. "I mean, there's steam and all, but really, I was not expecting _that."_

Mrs. Hudson chuckled nervously and returned John's bemused glance.

"I'm going to go check on Sherlock again," Mrs. Hudson said finally, after an awkward pause in which the Doctor fussed with his tea.

"I'll join you," John said quickly, pushing up from his chair.

"Now I remember why I haven't had you in so long," the Doctor whispered to his tea as they left. "You're disgusting."

He poured the remaining tea back into the teapot and skipped down the stairs after his departing hosts.


	5. Screwdriver

A/N: same as always

...

Sherlock was looping the last of the intestine into a trash bag when the small group entered the kitchen.

"That's certainly an improvement," Mrs. Hudson relented. "Be a dear and spray something to get rid of that smell. Anyways, this has been...dramatic. Let's not do this again, Sherlock. And John, the security fee just went up. I'm sure you foresaw that. Goodbye! Enjoy your stay, Doctor."

The landlady made her way to her flat, leaving the three in a kitchen that contained about as much blood now as any other would. John fished a little-used bottle of air freshener from a cupboard, and passed it to Sherlock before turning once more to his guest.

"Is there anywhere you need to be right now, Doctor?"

"Well, yes and no," the Doctor said, frowning to himself slightly. "By the way, your next case is going to prove to be quite a toughie, and I would recommend being prepared for lots of explosions. And not the good type, I'm afraid. The very bad kind."

...

"Hello, Amy!" the Doctor's image said after she had identified herself. "I'm glad you're still with me. Actually I'm happier you're _not_ with me, because then I have no idea how we'd get the TARDIS back. Anyways, you need to tell me what my behavior was like before the crash/eviction/disappearance. Watch closely, the differences are subtle."

The image began scrambling about the controls, mumbling technobabble and twirling in circles, pointing his hands up and looking beseechingly at the ceiling. He then straightened and returned in front of the camera.

"Was that it?"

"There wasn't any of that twirling," Amy said, with certainty.

"Oooh, sorry. I can only understand yes or no answers. So, was that it?"

"No," Amy said crossly. How many clips of the Doctor acting ridiculous would she have to watch?

The image then raced about hitting and yanking things on the console, yelling out progressively louder and more...enthusiastic 'wells.'

"Was that-"

"No."

"Amy, please wait for me to finish my question! Was that it?"

"NO!"

"No need to get huffy with me, Pond," the Doctor sniffed, looking slightly hurt.

He then raced again to the console, but this time remained in front of one set of levers and buttons, silently examining a screen with great concentration. A bleary voice (oh God, is that how she sounds when she wakes up?) asked the Doctor what was going on, and continued pressing him for information. He answered with increasingly irate "Not now!"s

"Was that it?"

"Yes."

"Oh, not good, not good. We've somehow found something difficult, rather more difficult than normal, to deal with. Was there any technical jargon you can remember?"

"Something about dimensions and irreality."

"Dimensions? Irreality? Oh dear, I was afraid of that. Reach behind that knob and...and, voila, read that paper there. Alright? See it? Good luck, Amy Pond!"

She reached behind the knob and the paper slid into her hand. Amy started to scan the list, but was stuck on the first item.

"Don't panic? Oh geez, what are you going to make me do?"

...

"Excuse me, but was that a...threat?" John asked, bewildered.

"Just a precaution. I'm familiar with Sherlock's work, oh yes, who could forget that man? The next case will be exceedingly troublesome. No worries, though, just try to be a little more careful than usual. But good luck getting Sherlock to be careful..."

"Do you read his blog?"

"Blog? How on earth do you _read__a__blog?_" the Doctor said incredulously.

"What do you think a blog is?" John asked, face scrunched up in confusion.

_He__looks__remarkably__like__a__kitten__when__he__does__that_, the Doctor thought to himself. Focusing again on the question, he replied, "A transdimensional being from...well, everywhere I guess you can say, but the most interesting part is that in humanoid species we perceive them as smells. Humanoids, we smell things and that knocks a memory back into our conscious mind. Have you ever had a memory and for the life of you, you couldn't remember what caused you to remember it? Blog travel does that. Very fascinating st-"

"What the hell are you talking about?" John asked, stepping slowly away from the man.

"Oh, oh! So sorry. I thought last time aliens invaded London you all would finally remember them...hmm, dear."

"I'm calling...someone. The po-" John ripped his cell phone from his pocket.

The Doctor in turn went to whip his screwdriver from his pocket before remembering that he had left it in his jacket. Back at John's flat. Not good, not good at all.

...

Mrs. Hudson picked up the Doctor's soggy clothing and fumbled around in the pockets. An empty bag of Jelly Babies and a...something.

"Sherlock dear?" she called up the stairs. "I have a mystery for you."

There was a thud against the floor and then the thumping of hurried feet on the stairs. Sherlock's head peeked out around the corner and then he stepped forward.

"Yes?" he asked impatiently.

Mrs. Hudson passed him the object she had found in the Doctor's pocket.

"Interesting," he muttered, turning the object over in his hands.

...


	6. Companion

A/N: I don't own anything here besides the story. Sorry for the italics issues. I don't know what's up with it, but I'll try to avoid it.

You know what to do.

...

The Doctor grabbed John's face in his hands.

"Wh-what are you doing?" In his confusion, John dropped Harry's phone. They both cringed at the sound of it smashing against the concrete.

"I'm sorry, but this will be much quicker than explaining," the Doctor said. He banged his head against John's and they both stumbled backwards.

"AMY!" John screamed. "Amy, oh, Amy, I'm sorry."

"Oh dear, a little too hard, hmm?" the Doctor muttered, helping John to his feet. "Who am I?"

"The Doctor," John said incredulously. "But you're just a story. Something from the telly."

"You're John Watson. Where I'm from, you and Sherlock are the ones from the telly. Well, from the movies and books too."

"But, it's impossible."

"Nothing's impossible, especially not something like this. It makes sense, when you really get into the physics. Now it's gets much harder when you get to theore-"

Suddenly, the force of an invisible something smashing into the ground, much as Harry's phone had, propelled them backwards. As they tried to right themselves, they heard a slight creak, not unlike that of an old door.

"Doctor? Are you there?" a voice called out. "We have to go. We have to go now."

...

"It's..." Sherlock began. Before Mrs. Hudson could say anything, he had shoved the object into his pocket and was halfway down the stairs. "He's back, Mrs. Hudson. This is probably a nine! No, a ten!"

Sherlock hailed a cab and directed the man to the park to which John had surely taken the Doctor. He was practically twitching in anticipation by the time the cabbie pulled into the parking lot. Pushing a wad of cash into the man's outstretched hand, he slammed the door and took off running.

"Doctor!" he yelled, spotting the two men across the park. "Wait!"

As he ran, a slim redhead emerged from nothing and pulled the Doctor back. The redhead disappeared again, pulling the Doctor with her. John sat on the floor, rubbing his forehead in pain.

"Doctor!" Sherlock called. But he slowed to a walk, knowing that the Doctor had left him. Again.

...

"Why. Didn't. You. Tell. Me?" Amy screamed, striking the Doctor's chest.

"I know what it's like to lose someone," the Doctor said quietly. "I didn't want you to have to feel...that."

Amy spun away from the Doctor and collapsed on her chair besides the console. Her shoulders heaved as she sobbed into her lap.

The Doctor crept up to the console and began punching buttons.

"We have to save a man's life, a very important man. He'll help you, I promise. We'll get him back, soon, you just have to help me first."

"I hate you," Amy said, but she got to her feet anyways. "What do I have to do?"

...

"Did he, did he leave me anything?" Sherlock asked. He could tell the Doctor hadn't.

"No," John said. "But he did ask-. No, wanted to tell you, would be a better way to put it. He wanted to tell you 'It will explode one way or another, but it's probably best it you just shoot it.'"

"Oh," Sherlock said. He began to dissect the sentence, seeking desperately for a hidden meaning as the two friends went to hail another cab. To his disappointment, or rather, frustration, he found none.


	7. Couch

A/N: Same as usual. Read and review please!

I'm going to be playing around with established canon. As in, parts of it will be what you're familiar with and some won't. Ignore the last 2 seasons I guess? Anyways, allons-y!

...

"Let me explain," the Doctor said. "I'm very good at that."

Amy snorted, and folded her arms across her chest.

"Maybe not very good," he added nervously. "Maybe just good. Okay, maybe just average! Anyways, you're married, or rather engaged, to a man named Rory. You don't remember him, because he's been erased from history."

"Then how do you remember him?"

"You and Rory had interconnecting timelines but according to the Gallifreyan chrono-"

"The truth, Doctor," Amy said. "I know when the technobabble doesn't mean anything."

"I don't know exactly. I have a couple of theories, but no way to test them."

"Has this happened to one of your, your, other companions before?"

The Doctor stopped fidgeting with the console and leaned wordlessly against it. Finally, he nodded.

"How...did it work out? Did it?"

"He, he never suspected that...there'd been someone he'd forgotten."

"Would it have worked out?"

"I can't say. But Amy, I _promise_ I'll do everything in my power to save him."

"Thank you," she said, not looking up to meet his eyes. "I think."

...

Sherlock had been lying on the couch, wrapped in a plain sheet, for well over a week. He refused all but the tea and biscuits John left him, but even then, John found them only half-finished at the end of the day. The normally thin man looked gaunt and pale, but refused any of John's ministrations.

"This is ridiculous, Sherlock," John said, one day. "I know you're upset, but you've got to pull yourself together. You're going to waste away pining for some man you met once. I know you don't like your mysteries to have loose ends, but..." He trailed off, as Sherlock began to rise.

"He's not just some man. I can't read him. He's the only person I've ever seen that I couldn't understand something about right away. Besides, we're not...we weren't strangers."


	8. Stayin' Alive

A/N: I apologize for the long wait. I feel like I say this a lot….Oops. Well, I hope someone reads this and enjoys it. Again, I don't own anything, and appreciate reviews and feedback! Remember, this isn't going to be canon-y :P

I am trying to remember where I wanted this story to go, and if I remember correctly, Amy finding about Rory is _before_ the crash. Anywho, onwards with the story!

oooooooo

"You…know that man?" John asked cautiously. "It's all real then; he's not just a character?"

"You know I know nothing of physics. Wastes space. But yes, he's real. Every once in a while, he just shows up. When Mycroft and I were younger, we saw him roaming the streets in the most unusual clothing. We were trying to deduce something about him, but he was just….Well, you saw. We followed him, and he left an umbrella behind. We noticed him several other times, but he changes appearances, bodies even. But it's him, somehow. "

"So that's why you didn't recognize him at first?" John panted, struggling to keep up with Sherlock's determined pace.

"Oh no. I was focused on the pig and Mrs. Hudson, not the man who followed you home from the grocery. But the contents of his pockets and that door…Those always seem to stay the same."

"Do you want to call Mycroft?"

"Mycroft claims he doesn't believe anymore," Sherlock scoffed. "Ask him why he _really_ got into politics, why he does all that top secret nonsense. Ask him why he's so fond of umbrellas after all these years. No, I'll bring him back first, the Doctor."

Oooooooooo

Sherlock plotted for weeks, roaming the streets or pacing the flat, arms covered in nicotine patches. Once the kitchen was tidied up, Mrs. Hudson forgave him and was encouraged by his excitement over his latest 'case.' He muttered, slept little, and barely touched any food, but neither Mrs. Hudson nor John had ever seen him so motivated or happy. He was a man who needed a mission, and one had just fallen from the sky.

Finally, Sherlock devised a plan. He discussed a part of it with Mycroft, hiding his true intentions, and even consulted with John, who felt he was again simply a replacement for Sherlock's skull.

And then he became reckless. Sherlock took every case, updated his blog even more frequently than usual and encouraged John to do likewise, and began spouting theories that would have sounded paranoid to anyone who didn't know him. John went along with him for the most part and even began to believe some of the stories. Apparently, a consulting criminal, the Sherlock equivalent on the bad side, was lurking about London, and Sherlock was intrigued. John knew Sherlock was still preoccupied with the Doctor and wondered where this criminal mastermind fit into his master plan.

Oooooooooooo

John stood to the side, trying to maintain a proper soldier's demeanor. He was shaken as Sherlock removed the bomb and tossed it to the ground. John watched Sherlock, trying to determine what the man was thinking, but got nowhere. Sherlock was always ten steps ahead, and revealed nothing, even in his apparent agitation.

Suddenly, Moriarty returned, hands in his pockets and demonic grin plastered across his pale face.

"Sorry boys, but I'm soooo changeable," he called.

John's heart sank as he noticed the little red lights were back as well.

"I couldn't just let you live!" Mycroft smiled. "It'd be fun, but there _is _such a thing as too much fun, you know."

Sherlock just watched him, and adjusted his grip on the gun.

"Oh, Sherlock, aren't you going to say something? Any last words?" Turning to John, he added, "And you, John, don't think I forgot about you! Sherlock's little pet. You can die first, that would be interesting. Don't you think, Sherlock?"

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath.

"What was that, Sherlock? You'll have to speak up."

Sherlock lifted the gun and pointed at Moriarty.

"Oh come now, Sherlock," the man smiled, raising his hands. "Pulling that trigger won't save anybody."

Sherlock nodded and lowered the gun.

Moriarty's grin somehow got even larger. "That's a boy, Sherlock."

Sherlock pointed the gun at the bomb now, raising his eyes a bit to make eye contact with John. He began to blink and John automatically started translating.

'_H…e…l…p_' _Well, what could he do? He had a gun pointed at his head too. But wait, there was more. 'I…s…o…n…t…h…e…w…a…y'_

John's forehead wrinkled in confusion at the message. What help? He doubted Mycroft knew anything.

Suddenly, an unfamiliar noise seemed to come from nowhere as a blue police box materialized besides the bomb. The _vworp-vworp_-ing echoed around them and even Moriarty's confident grin slid.

"Hello hello hello!" a cheerful voice shouted, as a creaky door swung open.

A man, dressed in a bowtie, tweed jacket, and large sunglasses emerged from the box, followed by a redhead in a short skirt and vest. She looked around cautiously and visibly startled at the blinking bomb in front of her.

"Uh, Doc-?" she began, but the Doctor cut her off.

"I suppose I don't need these right now," he mused, pulling off his shades and tossing them back into the box. "Rather dark out."

Moriarty was struggling to maintain his composure, but he motioned to his snipers to stand down. John looked surprised, but quickly recovered, and both men seemed to find the sight underwhelming.

"Oh, a _situation_, I see," the Doctor smiled. "I suppose you boys need help."

The Doctor shoved Amy back through the doors, as Sherlock and John raced towards the box. The snipers, though well-trained and worldly, were understandably shocked and narrowly missed their targets. A few bullets hit the police box, but to little effect, and soon the box had disappeared.

Moriarty's phone began to play 'Stayin' Alive.' "WHAT?" he bellowed into the mobile.

oooooooooo


End file.
